." Her thin shoulders were shaking, with visible rage. Spittle flew from loose lips. "Once I was Queen of the Golden Bridge of the Gjoll and now-nothing!-nothing but a slave, chained to this wretched boat.

I'll watch him bleed and die on Vigrid's plain and I'll laugh as Surt burns the world. Aye, it'll be a fine day for vengeance when the sons of Muspell ride."

Modgud's eyes were glazed, my presence forgotten.

And I thoughtI was out for vengeance. . . ?

I hoped to hell-or was it Hel?-I did nothing to anger the old witch. Enemies like her I could do without. She began crooning to herself in a language I'd never heard, so I turned my gaze back out to sea -or rather, to the river. Christ, they didn't do things on a small scale in Niflheim. The opposite shore was closer; but not much.

What would I find on that inhospitable jut of land? Niflheim was where the old, the sick, and the accident-prone came when they died. From everything I could gather, it was supposed to be a pretty dull place. All the real fun was in Valhalla; although if Valhalla was supposed to be fun, maybe I'd settle for boredom and Niflheim.

The only thing I heard was wind in my ears. Given the way sound carries across the water, I couldn't imagine there'd be much happening over there. Maybe I'd find Hel's Hall, like Modgud had said. Would Loki's daughter tell me where to find her father? Or just casually squash the life out of mefor daring to intrude into her kingdom? My fingers caressed my pistol and I thought I heard the old crone's snicker at my back.

A movement far off to port, almost on the horizon, caught my eye. The water was boiling. Great waves rolled off some disturbance. Plumes of spray shot into the air like a row of uncapped oil wells- angry foam bubbled and hissed for nearly a mile in either direction from the disturbance's center. A brief gleam tantalized my retinas, gone before I could name color or substance. The water continued to boil and spew for several moments more, then gradually subsided to flat black again.

I turned to look at Modgud; but she hadn't noticed or didn't care, and after her response to my last question, I didn't much feel like asking. The first rolling swell caught up with the skiff, lifting it slightly before the stern slipped into the trough. I thought the next wave would surely swamp us; but the skiff only repeated the gentle, lifting motion. Or was Modgud doing the lifting to keep her craft afloat?

I wondered if Death liked wet feet any more than the rest of us. Except she wasn't really Death; Hel was. . . .

I shook my head to clear it. Maybe it was something in the air, or just exhaustion; but my thought processes were beginning to resemble a well-scrambled egg. I turned my eyes back toward the far shore, which to my astonishment suddenly was only a hundred yards away.

There was no repetition of the bone beach. Instead, the ground was an odd, indefinable grey, somewhere between green and black, undercut at the water's edge to form a steep clay bank as high as my waist. The other side of the bridge had collapsed into stony rubble. From the river's edge, the land rose in sharp ridges, each higher than the last, blocking further view inland. Strewn across those ridges, and half buried in them, were jagged boulders, somewhat lighter grey in color, ranging from no larger than my fist to massive blocks that would've dwarfed a three-bedroom house. Some glinted oddly in the light, with occasional bright flashes of genuine color that made me wonder if they, too, were phosphorescing.

I didn't see anything that remotely resembled buildings. There was no sign of vegetation; but as we neared the bank, I could see that the top six inches of soil were extremely dark, forming a layer that looked richer, more organic than the clay below. The whole sweep of land was barren, utterly deserted.

I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or apprehensive at the lack of habitation.

I had no more than these few moments for an impression of my destination because the boat had stopped dead in the water. The silence of the cavern rushed into my ears, replacing the roar of wind. We were still a good twenty yards from shore. I turned to look at Modgud. What now?

"You must pay the toll," she said softly, her eyes dancing.

I glanced at the intervening yards of water. I was a pretty good swimmer. A cackle interrupted my thoughts. She had picked up the braincase bowl and was scooping out a handful of silver coins. Modgud dipped the skull into the water, filling it; but carefully kept her gnarled fingers dry. She raised the braincase to eye level. Seconds later, water poured out the hole it had eaten through the bottom. I swallowed.

"You must pay the toll," she said again, with a grin that lingered as her eyes measured my braincase against the ruined bowl in her hand.

"Uh . . ." I fumbled through my pockets, fingers shaking despite my efforts to remain calm. I dug out a scant handful of change and saw mostly pennies, plus a couple of old "lucky" dimes I was never without.

I didn't have any gold, except the little gold Thor's hammer on a chain around my neck. I was awfully fond of that.

"I-uh-haven't got any gold coins-"

Modgud spat over the side. There was a quiet hiss as spittle struck the acid "water." Her lip curled.

"Gold is for trinkets. Junk. Silver was the price of the bridge, and silver is the price of the ferry."

I scooped up both dimes and started to hand them over.

A disembodied voice reached across the water. "I wouldn't give her both, if I were you."I spun. Pennies slid all over the bottom of the skiff. A man was rising to his feet, from a comfortable seat against a boulder.

"What?" I knew I sounded like a Vienna Boys' Choir soprano, and didn't care. I'dlooked at that piece of ground, and hadn't even noticed him.

"I'd give her only one," he repeated, with a genial smile. "How else will you pay for the ride back across?"

Good point.

If I lived that long.

I handed Modgud one dime. She curled bony, claw-tipped fingers around it.

The boat swept silently toward shore, and grounded gently a moment later. The owner of the disembodied voice had come down to the shoreline, and now stood looking into the skiff. Blond, with laughing blue eyes. He was surprisingly short, but compactly built and muscular. There couldn't have been an ounce of fat anywhere on him. Even at my best-which I hadn't been since getting shot full of holes-I was nothing but flabby standing beside him. And this guy was dead as a doornail. Dead people were supposed to look . . . well . . . decently dead.

He balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, arms loose, ready to grip my hand in friendship, or heft a weapon, whichever was called for. He wore a long sword, in a black scabbard worked with silver. His torso was protected by a ring-mail shirt, but he wore no helmet. Cautious; but not overtly threatening.

Did he work for Mistress Hel? Or . . .

A bloodstain had dried across the front of his shirt, just visible beneath the mail. A curious little green dart was embedded in his chest, having struck between the circular links.

Green dart?The first dead person I met in Niflheim was agod ? The "coincidence" made me sweat, despite the cool, damp air. The dart that had killed Baldr was Loki's doing. Though someone else had thrown the weapon, Loki alone had known that the mistletoe dart was the only thing in the nine worlds that could kill his foster nephew.

My next-irreverent-thought was how extraordinarily short Baldr was, for a god. I hadn't exactly pictured myself as a giant; it hadn't occurred to me that I might actually tower over any of the Norse gods. Vikings were supposed to have been tall people.

"How long are you planning on staying?" he asked, nodding toward Modgud.

With difficulty, I turned my attention back to the silent old crone. "I'll be finished here by this time tomorrow, or I should be, anyway, so how about you pick me up then?"

She just looked at me with those weird, hollow eyes.

My Nordic athlete spoke up: "Death has no concept of time, friend."

"Oh." Logical.

"Well, then, how about tides? We're at the bottom of Yggdrasil here, right? And Earth-I mean Midgard-is just above us here, so it's all part of the same tree, right? And this river is big enough to have tides, right?"

I really was going to have to stop babbling like a fool.

The blond laughed quietly, a nice sympathetic chuckle that somehow put me at ease despite my suspicions.

"Not necessarily; but it happens there are tides here. Two in about, oh, four-and-a-half songs.

Roughly the same as Midgard. Earth," he added, smiling in deference.

Songs? Did they keep track of time by how long it took to sing a ballad? Without day and night, and no real need for sleep, it made some sense.

"Good. Can you be here, at this spot, in two tides?"

She held my gaze, and smiled slowly. "Can you?"

"Just be here, okay? I'll have the silver with me."

I knew I sounded petulant; but that old witch made me nervous, and Baldr-the dead god-wastaking an interest in my affairs that I could have done without.

Modgud inclined her greasy head and I jumped ashore. I slipped in the clay, and slid toward the acid river. Before I could plummet feet-first into a messy death, my benefactor grabbed my arm, and hauled me to the top of the bank. I panted my thanks, which he waved away, innately courteous, although I saw his eyes narrow slightly.

He was probably wondering-with sudden apprehension-whether saving me had been the smartest thing he'd ever done. Given who his father was, I wasn't so sure-from his viewpoint-that it had been, either. Personally, I was pretty grateful. I had to watch my step triply now that I was squarely in the middle of Death's domain. I squared my pack and tugged my tattered shirt back down into place.

His first question voiced what everyone must have been wondering, myself included.

"What brings you here?"

The old woman's high cackle stopped any answer I might have formed.

"He's come to torment your uncle," she wheezed gleefully.

Baldr's brows drew sharply down. My instinct was to dive for my knife, even as I wondered whether a dead god could be killed again. . . .

The skiff shot out into the river, disappearing into a bank of mist, which left me no choice but to face Loki's nephew-and Odin's son.

Chapter Twelve.

It figured that Odin's favorite son-and one of Loki's worst enemies-would be on hand to greet me.

He stared out at the mist for a moment; then pulled himself together visibly. "I apologize," he said with a wan smile. "Thinking about my uncle is a little upsetting. I try not to, at all." He looked me up and down, taking my measure. "You didn't come all this way to torment Loki, surely?"

"No. That was her idea." I jerked my head toward where the skiff had vanished. "I'm really just looking for some information from him."

His face clouded somewhat. "I wouldn't advise that. Loki is dangerous, and not exactly cooperative." A pained expression crossed his face. "I ought to know."

"It must be rough, huh?" I asked, trying to sound sympathetic.

He shrugged, and smiled ruefully. "Well, it isn't great, no, and the mold growing on your feet can get to you; but it isn't so bad, really. Plenty of peace and quiet, no worries to speak of, so long as you avoid Loki. He's kind of bitter about the whole thing."

And Baldr wasn't? If someone had murderedme and dumped me in this gawdawful place for eternity . . . Maybe living in Niflheimdid scramble a person's brain, or maybe dying was akin to gelding, because it was hard to believe thatany Norse god could bethis mellow, never mind a son of Odin who'd beenmurdered .

On the other hand, madness did take a variety of forms. I was convinced that Odin himself was 'round the bend andgone , so it was entirely possible that Odin's dead son was cheerfully mad in his own inimitable way. But while my current ability to judge relative sanity might be impaired (I was in hell, after all), Baldr didn'tlook insane. He looked hale, hearty, and sort of wistful around the eyes.

"What can I be thinking?" he said with a grimace. "I can only excuse my manners by pointing out that we get so few visitors, it's easy to forget courtesies. Baldr is my name."

He held out his hand. I started to take it and he clasped my forearm instead, in a firm grip.

"Baldr," he said again, "son of Odin, longtime resident of Niflheim. And you "-his eyes twinkled- "are something of a mystery."

I glanced over my shoulder in the direction Modgud had disappeared, and wondered if Baldr were lying. Everything I'd read about Baldr said he was the primal good guy. But if Modgud knew what was going on, surely Baldr did too? Or did Modgud know simply because she was in charge of the ferry, soit was her business to know? Or had she just made a very shrewd guess?

How the hell was I supposed to know which gods knew what?

I looked back at Baldr. "Yeah, well, everything that's been happening to me lately is kind of mysterious. I'm damned if I know how to explain it." I shrugged ruefully. "I'm Randy Barnes."

"Yes, I know."

My blood went cold and my eyes went hard.

Baldr chuckled and added, "Let me explain. A while back a Norwegian came through here, wrapped in ropes, cursing something awful, bones sticking out odd places-one hell of a mess, if you'll pardon the pun-and he said you were in a powerful hurry to get here. Of course, he thought he'd spoken figuratively." Baldr chuckled. "Then Hel heard your arrival-the living are so noisy in comparison with us dead folk; your footsteps echoed all the way down Sleipnir's tunnel and across the Gjoll-and we realized the poor man had inadvertently spoken literal truth."

Baldr was still chuckling; but I remembered Bjornssen's death scream. I didn't like the casual way these gods killed us off when it suited their game plan. Baldr's laughter died away, replaced by puzzlement.

"Why are you angry about this?"

"Why did you kill Bjornssen? It wasn't necessary."

He looked more puzzled than before. "I have never killed anyone."

"Yeah. Right. Tell it to the birds."

My knees had gone shaky-reaction setting in, maybe, or just plain rage-so I strode to the nearest boulder and sat down before I collapsed embarrassingly in front of him. I was whacked out, and bone-deep sore in more places than I wasn't, and standing there talking was a goddamn waste of time I probably didn't have to spare. I had people to see, and Gary Vernon to avenge.

"Sorry," I muttered. "I keep getting all you gods mixed up."

Baldr squatted beside me, and studied my face for several moments; then stared out across the Gjoll. When he spoke, his voice was distant, contemplative. "Each man's death is his own to meet, and each man must face it alone at the time decreed for him. That is one moment no one can take from him or assume for him. The fault of your friend's death cannot be yours, any more than it can be mine or any of the other gods'."

I glanced up; but couldn't tell whether he was talking about Klaus or Gary.

Baldr was still talking. "The Norns decree all that must be. They guided his footsteps up to the moment of his death, as surely as they have guided yours here while you still live."

Gary's death provedthat wrong; but I didn't feel like arguing the point with Odin's son.

"All I want is to talk to Loki," I growled.

Baldr's eyes narrowed. "About what?"

"Sleipnir."

Baldr's eyes widened. "What in the nine worlds has Sleipnir to do with this?"

I glanced up from checking my P-7 for rust. "Got to do with what?"

He swept a hand around at the landscape. "Your presence here. Obviously the Norns have brought you here for a reason, and a very important one; but Sleipnir is Odin's horse, not Hel's. He doesn't live in Niflheim."

I met his blue eyes squarely. "I saw him just a few minutes ago, in that big tunnel of his. He was headed this way."

Baldr grinned, and shrugged. "I didn't say he doesn't occasionally visit." Then his expression sobered, and he pursed his lips. "Whatever's up, it certainly bodes to be interesting."

"Huh. You just said a mouthful, friend."